A Visit From Death
Death sat nestled into a high-back velvet chair in the private section of the dining room, swirling a brandy snifter. The chandelier winked overhead, each crystal a blazing star, casting sparkles throughout the room.
An odd mood descended upon him as he waited for Nella. He drained the brandy snifter and motioned for another one. The waiter topped it off and he downed that one too. The liquid burned inside his body, making it hot.
He’d almost done it, wiping the world clean, all bets aside. It’s what they deserved after the horror of World War I: millions more souls for him to collect, leaving blasted bodies strewn across Europe, men cut down like marionettes, and for what?
So he had allowed influenza to creep forward, leaping from port to port, town to town, house to house, and bed to bed, with entire families gone in mere days.
The young soldiers stacked up like driftwood in the barracks, small children languishing in their government schools, their elders dying in their villages, all victims of the purple fever, their faces bluish black as their bodies starved for oxygen, red, wet lungs so engorged with liquid that the people drowned, struggling to draw air.
He could have let it rage on, claiming every soul . . . when he’d stopped.
It had been a small thing as he gathered people in Vienna, collecting the soul of a young mother as her young daughter clung to her body. Wonderful pots had lined the room, created by the mother’s deft hand.
She was no one famous. Her name was of no importance.
She was just a woman with a talent.
And still he lamented that no more of her art would ever be made. A shame. It was the first time such a thought had flittered into his mind. He’d shaken it off, leaving the daughter weeping over the body, knowing he’d be back for her soon, but the thought crept in still, catching him unaware.
Death had been having the oddest sensations of late as he collected the souls.
Some were business as usual, while other deaths lingered.
The faces of the dead came to him, burdening him.
It wasn’t just the moments of their passing, but other memories as well.
Births. Loves. Dreams fulfilled. Happiness.
Bits of goodness had attached themselves to him and stuck.
He could feel them now, see them for what they were—the sensation.
It unsettled him.
He’d stopped the influenza because, after all, he’d made a deal with Nella not to take them all before he officially won. He’d known he’d cheated, and there was something unacceptable about that.
He was a being of his word.
That was what he told himself, at least.
Almost as if she had the power to wink into existence, Nella slid into the seat across from him, radiant, wearing a silken white dress and the emerald ring he’d left beside her washbasin.
“You look lovely, Nella. Quite expensive,” Death said, taking in her attire and her disposition.
When he’d last seen her, she’d been shattered and hollowed by the loss of her child.
A child he’d been responsible for because of these wretched, brutal humans.
He was beginning to think he’d never see her smile again, but something in Nella glittered brighter than the beads of her dress.
Death motioned to the waiter for a glass of champagne, as he had already guessed she’d be in a celebratory mood.
“I appreciate the compliment,” she said. “I believe New York agrees with me. It appears you may need some of what the city offers yourself.”
Death glanced at his pale, pallid hands. This was not the most handsome form, with thinning brown hair, poor sight, and jumbled front teeth.
It was fitting, though. The rough look of the man matched how Death felt. “This one was stabbed to death by his partner for embezzlement.” He shrugged indifferently, when deep down he wanted to argue. “But, humans, what can you say?”
Nella fixed him with a gaze. “Seems a poor choice by two individual humans.”
“Still fighting for the underdog.”
“I’m still fighting for what’s right.” Nella picked up her glass from the stem, pearls of condensation dripping down. “Have you come around to my way of thinking yet?”
“Using my words? Nice try, Nella. But it’s true, my work hasn’t gotten any easier or better.
If anything, it’s become more difficult.
” Death shook his head and tried to shake off the clinging thoughts of the souls he’d reaped.
He did not like the feeling. Nor the feeling that he could not look away from her.
“I must say—you’re radiant. Is it love again? ”
“Living all these years, I’ve discovered there are innumerable ways to define love. Each time it’s different. And it does help to pass the time,” she said neutrally.
“Ah yes, time.” Death sighed and swirled his glass, downing the drink quickly, the loose feeling intensifying. “It certainly passes, doesn’t it? Almost a hundred thirty-six years, by my count. Quite the history between you and me.”
“Are you feeling nostalgic?”
Death glanced at her and then away. In reality, he was. But it was more than nostalgia. Despite all he’d thrown at her, she still had the capacity for joy. Even though they were at odds, he was awestruck by her. The way she found strength despite the challenges. One might call it inspiring.
“I suppose. But we digress.” He set his glass down, preparing himself. He already knew what she’d say, but their game necessitated this meeting. Like actors on a stage, they both had their parts. Someday soon, one of them would have to break. He’d always been sure it’d be her.
“What did you bring today?” he said expectantly. “A poem? Another book, perhaps? I’ve read your articles in The New York Globe. Fair effort.”
“Am I that predictable?” She motioned to another waiter for—what? “I thought I’d bring something a bit more visual.”
Five women entered the dining room upon her signal, draped exquisitely in silks, satins, and crepes.
As they strutted, they sent the room into a tizzy.
The women circled the room twice. Pearls, gems, and beads danced in the chandelier’s light before they exited the way they came.
The last one held up a single card, handing it to the head waiter as she left.
Pandemonium ensued as two gentlemen jumped up, jockeying for the view, while several women fanned themselves. The murmurs became a roar as gossip flowed about the dresses and where they were from.
Nella smiled, the impact clear.
Death swished his snifter in his decrepit hand. While the dresses were visually appealing, he didn’t think anything she could’ve brought would’ve lifted his spirits. Then another waiter came forward with a box holding one dress.
“Here is the best one. It’s the first one that Adam made for me.” Nella gently removed the dress from its wrapping.
Death stroked the fabric, the uncomfortable feeling floating up again. “Charming, Nella,” he said softly. “Creating something as fine as this must have taken a skilled hand.”
Something as beautiful as this would not last forever.
A new thought slithered in the tumult of his mind: But does it have to? He knew fabric would fade. The threads would disintegrate, eventually leaving the glorious garment for rags. But is it better? Better to have a beautiful thing for even a short while rather than not at all?
“The tailor is an artist,” she said proudly. “The creation of beautiful things, once reserved for the elite of society, can be made and had by all. This is innovation. One of the key traits of humans.”
“Innovation?” he said, frowning. “Perhaps. I remember when humans wore nothing. Naked as they were born. What you call innovation, I see as the binding of people into particular roles in society.”
“I disagree. Clothes can become your armor or your passport into a different realm. You can choose who you are.”
“But does it matter?” Death countered, ready as always. “Did your new dress help you hail a cab on the way here? Did it stop diners in the luncheonette from scowling at your presence?”
“You’ve been watching me,” she says, spitting the words.
“We made a deal. I have a task. You’ve got to stop intruding in my life and leave me to it, especially when you only seek evidence to accuse me.
” She snatched the gown back, the beads brilliant under the lights.
“I can’t control what any of those people do.
All I can do is present you with the evidence you require.
Yet you never name what you’re after—what will be enough for you? ”
“I’m waiting for you to understand, as I know, that none of it is worth it, and it never will be.”
“It’s all worth it. Every bit.” She breathed through her nose, calming herself. “Look, the work in front of you and on those women is exquisite, made by the hands of a genius. Surely humans capable of creating such beauty are worthy of saving.”
Death pointed to the garment. “What of the work to make this satin and silk? The laborers who spend time in the field gathering silk or sprigs of cotton? Or have you forgotten them? Many die in pursuit of the raw materials for this luxurious fabric. Are their lives less important?”
She would not be baited. “All life has value, and there are many types of work in this world. Inequity is part of it, but as you have likely seen, societies change. This one has changed since I was born. People must now be compensated for their labor. It’s a step in the right direction.”
He gave her a look. “Nella, really? Compensated? At a fair rate?”
Nella couldn’t argue that point. “It’s not what it should be, but the argument is whether humans are worth saving. Through the work of myself and others, conditions are getting better. Humans can improve, and they’ve shown it over time.”
“But only after they’ve gotten worse,” he pointed out. Did she not know that he was not some idle being, that he held the fate of every individual on earth in his hands? “Millions died over the condition of servitude. Millions more died in the Great War. Is that progress?”
“Humans fought for what was right. Not more land, but the freedom of some of its people. Some things are worth dying for—worth fighting for.”
“Perhaps.” Death sipped from his glass, thinking. He’d missed this, sparring with her . . . being seen by her . . . but he must not forget his purpose. “Do you still consider this life worth fighting for? I’ll admit you’re much better situated than at other times we’ve met.”
Nella stiffened, afraid, like she was bracing for a wave. “Each of those other times, you had just taken someone from me.”
“It’s the game, Nella,” he said, her name a caress. “You will outlive anyone you love. Will you blame me for them all?”
“Not all of them,” she admits. “I sometimes wonder if I did die that day, and this is my personal purgatory of loneliness and loss.”
“I can promise you, this isn’t hell. Dante wasn’t even close. There aren’t any levels, only unceasing, endless pain.”
She shivered, leaning slightly away from him. He regretted his words. Most of them.
“But let us not talk of such things.” He could fix this. “Tell me—how is your writing coming?”
“I’ve just been given a lead travel column, so there’ll be more articles in the future.”
Death raised his glass. “I look forward to it.”
“Do you read them too? The things I’ve published?”
“Why does that surprise you? They sustain me between our meetings.” And they did. He read snippets in the quiet moments whenever his own loneliness became too great. It had become a weakness, as had their sessions. He felt too eager for them.
Perhaps what she needed was more time. Time would remind them both of the inevitable outcome. No one could bear the weight of a bargain for eternity. And he had a duty awaiting.
He stood somberly. “I must go.”
Nella blanched at his abrupt words. He slipped away, leaving her at the table with only the dress for company, back to his lonesome work, already looking forward to the next time they would meet.